Death
by PhoenixFlame123
Summary: ***HERE IS A SMALL NOTE*** You are going to die. ***ANOTHER SMALL NOTE*** Please, don't be frightened. I'm trying to be as cheerful as possible about this.   Writing style based off The Book Thief by Markus Zusak.
1. Death

The first time I saw her was when she was just a few moments into her life.

*****HERE IS A SMALL NOTE*****

**You are going to die.**

In fact, she hadn't evened opened her eyes when I first visited her in the tiny, crowded nursery, feeling the tugging sense that a soul was about to pass.

*****ANOTHER SMALL NOTE*****

**Please, don't be frightened. **

**I'm trying to be as cheerful as possible about this.**

Everyone – no matter what you think – will die sooner or later. It's just a matter of time. Trust me, I would know.

It befell me to take care of the animal's souls in the passing from their body to their place of rest. I must admit, the warrior Clans were always my favorite to visit – so interesting, so brutal. So desperate to cling to life, grasping at sands that quickly slipped through their... fingers, I suppose. The housecats were always the most boring, passing in their sleep, coughing up something that soon caused their demise. And their life, too, so boring and dull. Nothing like the Clans.

She was born in MarshClan – one of the less interesting Clans, if you ask me – in the dreary, mundane and personality-lacking midsection between autumn and winter, between the "leaf-fall" and "leaf-bare".

*****A QUICK PICTURE OF MARSHCLAN*****

**Gray-and-brown clouds cling to the sky. Tall, nervous-looking reeds wave in the ticklish breeze. **

**The clouds above endlessly drip like a leaking sink a child has tried his hardest to turn off, but has not quite managed.**

**Drips of water gather together in secret clubs to form thousands of**

**puddles stretching across the wet land.**

I knew one would pass, but I was not sure which – the small, frail black she-cat that had just been born, the frantically straining mother who cried out as she gave birth to new life, or one of the kits not yet born.

It turned out to be one of the latter, an even-smaller ginger tom with wiry-long legs and starving pale eyes. He did not stir, even as the white-and-black medicine cat tried to warm him with long tongue rasps – his fluttering heartbeat grew fainter and fainter before finally dropping into oblivion.

And immediately a faint, silvery-soft outline of his body appeared before me. I drew closer but he could not see me – none ever could. But instead of leading him off at once like I normally would, off to the field where one of their StarClan members would then take the lead, I hesitated.

I do not only sense the passing – I sense the life-force of creatures. And the one in front of me, the black she-cat who looked so tiny and frail, pulsed with such energy that I _almost_ hesitated a moment longer.

But I had no time, and already the nameless soul was becoming agitated. I placed a gossamer touch on the thing and, as usual, his life flashed before me – my favorite part of collecting. This, being such a new passing, was nothing but a sense of dark wetness, a flash of brown-red light and a soft mewling.

So I led him off, to the field where he met StarClan. Of course he'd never remember me – and I allow StarClan to believe that souls magically appear there for them to meet, that they do it all themselves.

I am not so selfish as to take all the credit for myself.

*****THE NAMES OF THE LIVING KITS*****

**Fernkit, Mosskit, and Owlkit. **

… … …

The next time I saw her was not too long after. I had since forgotten about the black kit pulsating with life-energy, too wrapped up in collecting Clan cats, housecats, loners and rogues, Tribe members, and those cats from the realm Clan cats would never meet. Only cats – the occasional brilliant minded-dog came along, but rarely, and where would a dog's soul go? Their souls are content to romp about, unnoticed, unseen, unheard, unfelt, in the place where they once called home. Dogs are like that, I have learned from my flight about eternity.

But when I met her again, I recognized exactly who she was - where she had come from. She still was as frail as she had ever been, with bones sticking out like needles and large, sky-soft blue eyes. That day was during the chilled spring, the sun a pale blonde and the clouds large handfuls of dough splattered carelessly onto the pallet of blue.

And she was what was equivalent to eight moons, learning her place in MarshClan as a warrior's apprentice, guided carefully under the watchful eye of a mentor named Stormblaze.

Stormblaze – such a ravishing, searing name for such a mediocre cat. Oh, he was brave and noble enough, a medium-skilled hunter, and would give his life for others. But other then that there was nothing incredibly fantastic about him, and his brown-and-gray mingled coat blended in perfectly... with the background.

But she was learning much from him. That much I understood.

She differed greatly from her sister Mosspaw, who was loud – in fact, Fernpaw rarely ever opened her mouth, never let her honey-flavored words flow. Mosspaw, on the other hand, had a voice like granite and her words "flowed" like nails on a chalkboard. But she spoke often and loudly, and soon became popular with the other Clan members.

It was Owlpaw, Owlpaw who was different from both Mosspaw and Fernpaw. He was a pale gray, transparent and feather-like, a shadow on a sunless day – not distinguishable but still, always there. He seemed frayed around the edges like a well-worn sweater and his voice was as quiet as the sky.

And he was the next to go, which is an awful choice of words but an accurate one.

*****A SAD FACT*****

**Fernpaw, as full of life as she was, **

**was to be haunted by death for the rest of her life.**

Let me re-phrase that. She was not to be haunted by _me,_ because I do not haunt. She would be followed, per say, by the passing of many of those around her, something I have a tie into.

The day was yellow. Murky clouds dryly drenched the blonde sun, and the air was damply colored. Fernpaw and Owlpaw hunted together, silence tying a tight knot of tension between the duo; but it was cut by the scissors of familiarness, and they soon became more comfortable with each other. No words cut the tangible silence, and the two communicated fairly well through bodily movements, flicks and twitches.

But Owlpaw was too concerned with the blackbird he was relentlessly pursuing to see the small cliff before him, and he had plummeted off it before he could realize what was happening.

When he crashed into the ground, I appeared next to his soul's outline, pale even after life. I looked up briefly to see the black she-cat's distraught face peering down, not seeing the peaceful soul next to me nor me, but only the broken body of her brother.

And I was shocked again to see her life-energy, but again could not stay. I could not comfort her even if I did stay.

When Owlpaw's life was channeled through me, I was given a taste of the pain he so tangibly felt. The pain of being ignored, of being invisible, was one that I was glad I would never be subjected to.

You understand, people do not simply ignore death.


	2. Chilled Wind

Once Owlpaw was gone, I was again shipped off for a long while. Fernpaw was granted a rest before I was near her again.

But so many key events happened in that time period that I am most certainly inclined to give you the details.

*****FIRST*****

**Her mother abandoned her.**

Not _just_ her, but life in general. Dovefeather was done, finished, tired with the endless chore of living and pain. She retired as an elder at the age of thirty moons, when most warriors were in their prime, spending her days sleeping and crying soundlessly in the corner of the elder's den.

Sadly, I could not grant her a passing. There was nothing I could do but try to give her the quickest possible, which came many, many moons later.

*****SECOND*****

**She found herself alone.**

Mosspaw, disgusted by her mother's behavior and her sister's silence, detached herself from the family and found comfort with other diversions – mostly toms hounding after her graceful beauty. She would talk to her friends in haughty distaste about her ugly, dumb sister, who was hearing the comments from across the camp, was in fact brighter than most and – in my opinion – quite lovely.

*****THIRD*****

**She fell in love.**

(And with the worst tom possible, may I add.)

But that will come much later.

… … … … …

Let me quickly describe the other Clans for you.

FlameClan was the Clan of proud and boastful oak trees that flowered under sunshine. They were rather disdainful in the fact that they believed themselves far superior to the other Clans, but generally found themselves the friendliest of the forest there.

ShadeClan, as you might deduct from their name, harbored the dark and mysterious – but also those longing for a place to fit in. The dark places in their territory glared at others, warding them off with sharp pines sticking up from the ground, yelling rebelliously at the darkened skies.

StoneClan was the Clan that lived in the mountainous hills on the region, and their sturdy stability made them fearsome in battle; but they enjoyed peace over war, and were fair to even the worst ShadeClan cat.

MarshClan, of course, was known for their flighty, swift abilities and shy, soft-spoken habits.

The next meeting of cats was one Fernpaw was invited to. She was filled with excitement but a flighty sense of fear – what if something were to go wrong? The fat moon illuminated her way as she raced alongside her Clanmates, heading to the Four-Hills for their Gathering.

Four-Hills, of course, meaning the tight, tiny cluster of small hills that clung to each other in the center of a large clearing. A damply reddish-brown color painted the sprigs of grass that grew on FlameClan's hill, and MarshClan's was a soft, trodden-upon green-and-yellow color. StoneClan's was that of bold, presuming granite, while ShadeClan proudly displayed a midnight-black hill of stone. I was rarely ever summoned to a Gathering as it was a place of peace, but when I did I always stayed as long as possible to enjoy the beauty of the majestic hills. Especially ShadeClan's – when the silvery-soft moonlight hit the black stone, it made it shine almost-blue. It was beautiful.

*****A FACT*****

**The beauty of the place was too often overlooked by the bustling, rushing cats, **

**eager to see their acquaintances from other Clans **

**and at the same time display their own Clan's strength. **

Why all the politics?

… … … … … … …

MarshClan's leader, an elderly black tom by the name of Ravenstar, had the looks of a wrung-out sponge left to dry in the sun. His skin was draped like a hand-me-down coat over a bony frame, and his dark amber eyes held more sights than many of the elders gathered around the clearing. But none could doubt his ferocity and wisdom, which is why he was still respected - even as his deputy, Lightstep, had to help him trod up the hill.

FlameClan, ShadeClan, and StoneClan were all already there, and Fernpaw found herself intently searching the faces of the other Clan's leaders.

FlameClan's leader, a young, pretty ginger-brown she-cat known as Aspenstar, was drawing a tongue over her slender paw, pale leaf-green eyes flitting about distractedly. Being a newer leader she was often intimidated by those of more experience, but stood up for her Clan more than anyone. I knew her deputy, Brackenstripe, believed he would be a better leader than her – and his vicious gaze often made me worry that I would soon be taking another one of Aspenstar's lives to the field of StarClan.

An imposingly bright figure made Fernpaw actually blink – Lilystar's pure white coat often made that impression, especially when the silver light of the moon lit up her fur and made her almost glow. But that was the only angelic part about ShadeClan's leader, and her deep, sharp green eyes bored a hole into every cat she made eye contact with, carefully collecting information with a sweep of the gaze.

Sitting across from her on the hill of smooth granite was StoneClan's leader, Thunderstar, a magnificent silver tom with black tabby stripes and deep dark blue eyes. He was much taller than all the other leaders, and his long, slender tail waved behind him as he rose his deep voice and called for attention.

"Aspenstar, would you like to begin?" the silver tabby rumbled as a blanket of silence covered the assembled cats.

The youngest leader gave a small incline of her head, standing and forcing her words to sound confident. "FlameClan – is doing well as leaf-bare approaches... the prey still runs well and we are certain that, even in the harshest conditions, we will sustain and strengthen our Clan. Redstorm, an elder, died a few sunrises ago." More-polite-than-sympathetic murmurs rippled through the cats below.

[I remember Redstorm. My, that old tom certainly put up a fight against me. I even granted him a few moons more than I should have.]

When she sat, Lilystar almost-too-hastily sprung up, eager to speak next. Her words pierced like thorns in the pelts of all not from her native Clan, and even her purrs lingered a little too long, leaving a haunting ring in other's ears.

"And ShadeClan, as usual, is prospering. Our apprentices are training hard, and Tinypaw has become Tinyheart."

Only scattered cheers came from cats around the crowd – another warrior in ShadeClan meant another one at their throats.

"We are sad to announce that Swanfeather, a loyal warrior, has passed away."

Discontented murmurs rippled through the crowd. Swanfeather was a young and healthy warrior; what had happened to cause her death so soon in life?

Lilystar's eyes flamed as her voice edged into a throaty growl. "Thanks to some stinking StoneClan warriors attacking our patrol!"

Thunderstar jumped up in indignation, deep blue eyes smoldering. "Only in retaliation after ShadeClan killed our apprentice, Foxpaw!"

"Your patrol attacked us! My patrol had no choice but to defend themselves!"

"Liar!" snarled Thunderstar as the clearing broke into murmurs and cries. "Your patrol was trespassing on our territory!"

*****WHAT ACTUALLY HAPPENED*****

**It was quite silly, actually - **

**a StoneClan apprentice chased a mouse too close to the border,**

**ShadeClan became angry,**

**and a seemingly-innocent comment caused the deaths of two cats.**

Ravenstar tried to call for silence, but his raspy growl couldn't be heard over the roar of anger coming from two Clans. Lilystar and Thunderstar snarled at each other, looking as if about to rip at each other's throats.

Fernpaw jumped a little when a young tom from StoneClan yowled loudly to make himself heard. Heads simultaneously turned towards the shaggy gray apprentice as he shouted at Lilystar, chocolate-brown eyes blazing.

"Fox-hearts!" he cried. "Your patrol wasn't even brave enough to take on the warriors! You went straight for the new apprentice who didn't even know how to defend himself!"

"Wolfpaw," Thunderstar snapped hurriedly, "This is not your place to sp-"

"What, and I'm supposed to just sit here and listen as those crowfood-eating cowards say that it wasn't their fault they killed my brother? Thunderstar, you can't just let them-"

"SILENCE!" came a roar, and everyone in the clearing flinched as Ravenstar stood, fed up with being ignored. He looked up at the moon. "StarClan is angry."

Heads turned in fear to see that indeed, clouds were being sent across the moon. Rumblings of deep thunder echoed from the black horizon, and trees around them started to sway with the picking up of wind.

"This Gathering is _over!"_ said Ravenstar, slowly getting down off the hill and waiting for MarshClan to assemble around him. Cats who had previously been consumed with rage looked sheepish as they slunk back to join their respective Clans – except for one. Fernpaw noticed with surprise that Wolfpaw, the young tom who had so brazenly defied his leader's orders, kept his head held high even as ShadeClan cats sneered and snarled at him, his tail lashing out behind him.

Fernpaw shivered with the chilled leaf-fall wind, joining the huddle of MarshClan cats as they hesitated, waiting for orders. Then, as if on cue, they surged away, none saying a word – even the usually-brash Mosspaw kept her mouth shut as MarshClan headed back to their territory.

Nothing broke the silence.

Nothing but a chilled wind.

… … … … … … … … … …

*****A QUICK CLARIFICATION*****

**I did not want to take the cats who had died.**

Foxpaw and Swanfeather, I mean. They were both still so young, so full of life-energy. For me, to take them away seemed like a crime. I was robbing them and the ones who loved them.

But I couldn't help it.

Please, understand me when I say this. I do not take any form of pleasure from taking the souls of cats who are young. Well, it _is_ nice when one dies old and ready, and I can take them to a better, warmer place. But to take the young – those who I feel have not yet reached their time – it is not good. It is not good at all.

And it most often comes to that in battle.

They say that war is death's best friend. I strongly disagree, unless you want to tell me that I take pleasure in taking cats. I do not. One bit. And war is the time for cats to die, because nothing happens until they do. You can scratch an enemy as long as you would like, but the battle – the war – will not be won until they die.

And I take them. Sorrowfully, but I take them. What else can I do? Leave their spirit there, alone and cold?

Only once have I done that, and it was on accident. A horrendous accident, too. Since the soul had already passed I felt no tugging to that place, and the spirit sat there alone, unable to be seen or heard by the cats around him.

It was a terrible thing, and it was my fault. The lone spirit wandered aimlessly, painfully, for moons before simply melting away, a piece of ice left in the sun. It was no more.

I never forgave myself for that, and neither did StarClan – they still mourn the "lost spirit".

Please believe me. I do not enjoy taking souls, but I must.

A prime example would be the next cat in Fernpaw's life to die.


End file.
